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h ttps  ://a  rc  h i ve . o rg/d  etai  I s/o  u 1 1 i n esto  b u rg  e rO  0 retz 


OUTLINES  TO 


BURGE  It'S  BALLA  DS. 


WITH 


iDrstsnrtJ  ant)  Cngratieti 

BY 

M o R I T Z R E T Z S C H. 


B UR  G Uirs  TEX  T,  EXP  L A N A T 1 0 X S,  A NJ)  B 1 0 G R A P II I C A L X OTIC  E S. 


BOST 0 N : 

It  O B ERTS  B It  O T II  E It  S. 
1873. 


6?/  . 

fl&Y  y~ 


jflout?  l\rt?sd)  anD  Burger. 


Moritz  Retzsch,  the  famous  illustrator  of  the  works  of  Shaks-  : 
peare  and  Goethe,  a series  of  whose  designs  for  Burger’s  ballads  is 
contained  in  these  pages,  was  born  in  Dresden,  December  9,  1779. 
His  ancestors  originated  in  Hungary,  where  the  name  “ Retzsch 
signifying  “ word  ” is  yet  extant.  Being  persecuted  as  Protestants,  they 
emigrated  to  Saxony.  The  artist’s  father,  August  Retzsch,  Secretary  of 
War  at  Dresden,  died  in  early  manhood,  leaving  his  family  in  limited 
if  not  in  straitened  circumstances.  The  bright,  active  boy  passed  his 
happy  youth  among  the  vineyards  near  Dresden,  cared  for  by  his 
mother,  a gentle  and  lovely  lady,  and  in  the  society  of  a sister  and 
dearly  loved  elder  brother.  He  early  revealed  an  enthusiastic  nature, 
excitable  imagination,  rare  tenderness  and  susceptibility.  The  subject 
of  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  the  impossibility  of  atonement, 
being  introduced  one  Sunday,  the  boy  rose  and  hastily  left  the  room  ; 
after  a long  fruitless  search,  he  was  found  under  his  bed,  sobbing 
and  crying  that  he  had  sinned  against  the  Holy  Ghost.  Although  he 
displayed  a great  love  for  art,  his  mother’s  friends  wished  him  to  study 
some  profession.  But  the  tutor  who  was  to  prepare  him  for  college, 
on  seeing  an  illustrated  journal  kept  by  his  pupil,  at  once  recognized 
his  talent,  and  at  his  earnest  instance  Retzsch  entered  the  Art  Academy 
at  Dresden,  in  1798.  Under  Professor  Toskani’s  tuition  he  progressed 
so  rapidly  that  in  less  than  two  years  the  good  man  declared  he  could 


teach  him  nothing  more.  Retzsch,  assured  that  he  could  now  dispense 
with  academic  aid,  returned  to  his  vineyard  home,  where  he  gave  free 
rein  to  his  fancy,  in  all  kinds  of  composition.  Some  time  passed  thus, 
and  Toskani  persuaded  him  to  return  to  the  academy  and  study  with 
Professor  Grassi,  an  odd,  pedantic  old  man,  who  soon  grew  jealous  ot 
his  pupil’s  progress ; and  fearing  least  he  should  excel  himself,  seldom 
permitted  him  to  be  present  while  he  painted,  and  was  very  chary  in 
giving  him  information.  Retzsch,  thus  thrown  upon  his  own  resources, 
painted  and  drew  from  works  in  the  Dresden  gallery,  and  soon  excited 
the  attention  of  connoisseurs  by  his  copy  of  the  Sistine  Madonna,  after- 
wards sent  to  America.  About  this  time,  he  executed  a series  ot 
drawings  from  Homer,  and  several  large  oil  paintings,  mostly  mytho- 
logical subjects,  which  were  exhibited  in  Dresden  in  1805-1807,  and 
greatly  contributed  to  his  fame.  Becker,  then  superintendent  ot  the 
Dresden  collection  of  antiques,  gave  an  order  for  the  illustration  of 
his  archaeological  work,  “The  Augusteum,”  a task  which  occupied 
him  for  several  years,  during  which  he  was  also  employed  in  filling 
orders  for  portraits,  which  occupation,  though  lucrative,  was  not  to  his 
taste.  The  cruel  war  years  1806—1814  brought  terrible  calamity  to 
his  family,  and  almost  exhausted  his  little  patrimony,  obliging  him  to 
exert  his  utmost  powers  ; but  in  spite  of  other  toil,  he  still  found  time 
for  his  favorite  pursuit.  Amid  the  burdens  of  war,  though  soldiers 


tn 


were  quartered  upon  him  and  battle  raged  around  him,  he  worked 
steadily  at  the  plates  for  Tieck’s  Genevieve  and  Goethe’s  Faust  and 
Egmont. 

Retzsch  made  the  personal  acquaintance  of  Goethe  through  Gen- 
eral Thielemann,  whose  portrait  he  had  painted.  To  them  and  to 
Professor  Hartmann  of  Dresden,  he  owed  a commission  from  Cotta,  the 
publisher,  to  design  a series  of  outlines  from  Faust.  This  was  a signal 
for  his  release  from  bondage.  Goethe  was  delighted  with  the  work, 
and  sounded  his  praises  far  and  near  ; soon  after  its  appearance,  his 
name  became  fis  familiar  to  England  and  France,  where  the  outlines 
were  speedily  republished,  as  it  was  to  Germany.  In  18 1G,  Retzsch 
was  made  a member  of  the  Dresden  Academy ; two  years  later  he 
married  a poor  girl  whom  he  had  long  loved,  and  for  some  years 
enjoyed  uninterrupted  bliss.  In  1824  he.  became  professor  at  the 
Dresden  Academy,  and  his  works,  most  of  which  were  published  by 
Cotta  ot  Stuttgart  and  Ernst  Fleischer  of  Leipsic,  steadily  increased 
both  his  fame  and  his  fortune.  In  1828,  finding  that  the  alternation 
of  work  and  tuition,  and  his  daily  journeys  between  town  and  country, 
wore  upon  him,  he  retired  to  his  vineyard  home  and  the  peace  and 
quiet  ot  country  life.  In  1835  he  met  with  a great  loss  in  the  death 
of  his  brother,  in  the  prime  of  life,  of  apoplexy  ; in  his  account  of  his 
own  life,  he  calls  him  his  best  and  truest  friend,  and  mourned  him 
sincerely  to  the  end  ot  his  days.  Honors  were  heaped  upon  him  ; 
the  Saxon  court,  that  is  Princes  1 rederic  and  John,  bestowed  many 
tokens  of  their  favor  on  him  ; and  Queen  Victoria,  for  whose  album  he 
made  several  drawings  at  the  order  of  the  Prince  of  Coburg,  rewarded 
him  handsomely  for  this  valuable  addition  to  her  collection.  Foreio-ners 
especially  English,  who  came  to  Dresden,  often  visited  the  artist’s 


2 


idyllic  home,  the  peaceful  asylum  of  the  muse,  pervaded  by  a pleasing 
simplicity.  The  attacks  of  envious  rivals  could  not  shake  the  calm 
content  which  he  long  enjoyed  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  and  sur- 
rounded by  trusty  friends.  Not  until  his  latter  years  did  he  show  any 
signs  ot  mental  decay,  when  his  deafness  rendered  intercourse  with 
him  painful  to  those  who  were  familiar  with  his  old  cheery  self.  From 
time  to  time  his  inner  life  waked  as  it  from  slumber,  and  only  a few 
days  before  his  death,  he  traced  with  trembling  hand  and  fast  failing 
sight,  a new  series  of  designs.  He  died  in  June,  1857  ; and  his 
mortal  remains  lie  in  the  graveyard  of  Neustadt-Dresden. 

Historically  speaking,  Retzsch  may  be  reckoned  as  a champion 
of  the  school  fostered  by  Goethe  and  his  friends,  early  in  this  century, 
as  opposed  to  the  newly  risen  romantic  school  of  art.  The  art 
amateurs  of  Weimar  struggled  bravely  against  it,  in  theory  at  least, 
and  the  Dresden  academy  lent  practical  support  to  their  plans,  espe- 
cially 1 rofessors  Matthai  and  Hartmann,  the  latter  of  whom  won  the 
first  prize  offered  by  Weimar  for  an  essay  on  the  subject.  Nominally, 
at  least,  he  agreed  with  these  artists,  although  he  often  differed  from 
them  in  his  choice  of  subject  and  style  of  treatment.  While  they 
searched  mythology  and  ancient  history  tor  a model,  Retzsch  preferred 
modern  poetry,  often  pitching  upon  the  most  romantic  images  in 
fanciful  or  allegorical  tales.  His  favorite  and  best-known  works  are 
the  illustrations  to  Goethe’s  Faust,  Shakspeare’s  dramas,  Schiller’s 
Lay  of  the  Bell,  and  the  following  ballads  by  Burger.  Other  works 
less  familiar  to  ns  are  the  outlines  to  Tieck’s  Genevieve,  “ Sintram 
and  his  Comrades,”  a sequel  to  Sintram,  by  Fouque  ; “ The  Girl  on  the 
Gray  Horse  with  a Hobgoblin  behind  her,”  and  “ Armida’s  Tears,” 
from  a story  by  Miltitz.  His  purely  allegorical  designs  have  much  in 


common  with  the  drawings  of  Runge  and  Kiigelgen,  his  Dresden  con- 
temporaries, who  strove  to  symbolize  the  romantic  in  theii  woiks. 

Retzsch  was  strongly  opposed  to  that  ascetic  school  which  turns 
away  from  the  realms  of  romance  to  grasp,  almost  passionately,  at 
medieval  models  ; he  often  vented  his  spleen  in  caricatures  ; one  of 
which,  representing  an  artist  with  flowing  beard  and  hail,  sitting  on  a 
dirty  torso  of  the  Apollo,  bears  the  following  words  : “ An  artist 

bound  and  guided  by  an  utter  want  of  taste,  on  whom  Heaven,  either 
in  admiration  or  disgust,  has  bestowed  this  body  as  a seat  whence  be 
may  more  easily  study  and  copy  a Madonna  roughly  hewn  in  oak. 
Such  are  the  critics  who  condemn  even  Raphael  in  art  and  Greek 
statues  in  sculpture.”  The  following  description  by  himself  of  one 
of  bis  symbolical  designs,  shows  his  love  of  strange,  almost  incompre- 
hensible allegory  : “ The  spirit  of  humanity,  banished  from  earth  by 
childish  ignorance,  is  reclining  on  the  back  of  a huge  sphinx,  whose 
features  are  averted,  and  partly  veiled  by  a cloud  ; be  bolds  a lose 
half-withered  in  bis  hand,  and  looks  up  with  a divine  expression 
towards  two  butterflies  which  have  escaped  from  the  chrysalis  state, 
and  are  sporting  above  his  head.  At  his  feet  are  a dead  bird  and 
reptile,  emblematical  of  sin  and  death. 

Retzsch’s  outlines  deserve  greater  praise  than  any  other  of  Ins 
works,  whose  number  (about  five  hundred)  testifies  alike  to  his  industry 
and  imagination.  Retzsch  expressed  himself  with  the  utmost  ease  and 
enjoyment  in  these  illustrations,  which  dispense  with  all  elaboration 
and  reveal  the  artist’s  thoughts  in  the  simplest  and  least  pretentious 
way.  He  strove,  as  did  Flaxman,  to  do  justice  to  the  special  requisites 
of  this  style  of  composition:  a peculiar  conception  of  the  subject  and  a 
sketchy  treatment  in  harmony  with  the  laws  of  perspective.  Retzsch’s 


drawing  is  singularly  sharp,  fine,  and  elegant,  the  character  of  his  de- 
lineations being  as  various  as  ingenious.  Goethe  greatly  influenced 
public  opinion  by  bis  compliment  to  tbe  artist ; in  a notice  of  tbe  illus- 
trations to  Hamlet  be  says:  “We  would  fain  fill  several  pages  with 
this  work  if  permissible  ; but  as  we  could  only  praise,  and  the  work- 
man’s best  praise  is  bis  own  work,  we  will  merely  express  our  hope 
that  all  directors  of  literary  institutions,  of  every  description,  will  pur- 
chase the  book,  sure  that  the  members  will  thank  them,  as  it  contains, 
not  only  a clever  preface,  but  the  principal  passages,  in  three  languages, 
including  tbe  original.  We  say  tbe  principal  passages,  because  tbe 
artist  bos  ingeniously  given  us  the  plot  of  a play  by  means  of  a few 
striking  incidents,  thus  presenting  a brief  analysis  of  the  whole.  But 
here  we  must  close,  lest  we  be  led  to  dilate  upon  tbe  characteristic  and 
happy  manner,  tbe  taste  and  skill  with  which  the  artist  has  managed 
to  place  before  us  in  bright  and  vivid  pictures  filled  with  healthy 
images,  a play  like  Hamlet,  which,  say  what  we  will,  must  ever  be  a 
gloomy  problem  to  the  soul.” 

Retzsch’s  first  important  works  found  even  more  favor  with  Eng- 
lish than  with  German  connoisseurs.  Mrs.  Jameson,  a well-known 
author,  speaks  with  enthusiasm,  in  her  “ Visits  and  Sketches,  of  her 
introduction  to  Retzsch,  bis  talent,  and  bis  personal  appearance.  He 
received  us,”  she  says,  “ with  open-hearted  frankness.  His  figure  is 
rather  larger  and  more  portly  than  1 had  expected ; but  I admired  his 
fine  Titanic  head,  so  large  and  so  sublime  in  its  expression ; bis  light 
blue  eye,  mild  and  wide,  which  seemed  to  drink  in  meaning  and  to  flash 
out  light;  his  hair  profuse,  grizzled,  and  flowing  in  masses  round  bis 
bead;  and  bis  expanded  brow  full  of  poetry  and  power.  In  bis  de- 
portment be  is  a mere  child  of  nature,  simply  careless,  without  regard 


to  forms  ; yet  pleasing  from  the  benevolent  earnestness  of  his  manner, 
and  intuitively  polite  without  being  polished. 

“ He  is  one  of  nature's  special  favorites,  endowed  by  her  with  a 
double  portion  of  the  inventive  faculty.  As  his  published  works  (the 
famous  outlines  to  Faust,  Shakspeare,  &c.)  are  illustrations  of  the 
ideas  of  others,  few  but  those  who  may  possess  some  of  his  original 
drawings  are  aware  that  Retzsch  is  himself  a poet  of  the  first  order, 
using  his  glorious  power  of  graphic  delineation  to  throw  into  form  the 
conceptions,  thoughts,  and  aspirations  of  his  own  glowing  imagination 
and  fertile  fancy.  As  a colorist,  I believe  his  style  is  criticised.  I was 
surprised  to  see  in  some  of  his  designs  and  pencil  drawings  the  most 
elaborate  delicacy  of  touch  and  most  finished  execution  of  parts,  com- 
bined with  a fancy  which  seems  to  run  wild  over  his  paper,  or  his 
canvas  ; but  only  seems , for  it  must  be  remarked  that  there  is  no 
exaggeration  either  of  form  or  feeling ; Retzsch  is  peculiar,  fantastic, 
even  extravagant,  but  never  false  in  sentiment  or  expression.  The 
reason  is  that  the  moral  sentiments  are  strongly  developed  in  his  char- 
acter ; where  they  are  deficient,  let  the  artist  who  aims  at  the  highest 
poetical  department  of  excellence  despair,  for  no  possession  of  crea- 
tive talent,  nor  professional  skill,  nor  conventional  taste,  will  supply 
that  main  deficiency.” 

Mrs.  Jameson  then  describes  the  head  of  an  angel  smiling,  and 
relates  that  Retzsch  painted  it  that  he  might  “ create  an  angel  for  him- 
self, which  should  smile  upon  him  out  of  Heaven,  when  pursued  by 
dark  fancies  and  haunted  by  melancholy  forebodings.”  She  adds  “ that 
it  is  but  rarely  that  we  can  associate  the  mirthful  with  the  beautiful 
and  sublime.”  Then  she  speaks  of  another  head  : “ perfectly  beauti- 
lul,  but  unspeakably  fearful, — the  orbs  of  sight  at  first  appearing  dark, 


hollow,  unfathomable  spaces.  This  picture,  the  Angel  of  Death , formed 
a grave  and  meaning  companion  to  the  other.”  Farther  on  she  men- 
tions a number  of  allegorical  designs,  among  them,  The  Enigma  of 
Human  Life,”  just  described,  and  a satire.  “ The  genius  of  Art,  repre- 
sented as  a young  Apollo,  turns,  with  a melancholy,  abstracted  air,  the 
handle  of  a barrel  organ,  while  vulgarity,  ignorance,  and  folly  listen 
with  approbation  ; meantime  his  lyre  and  his  palette  lie  neglected  at  his 
feet,  together  with  an  empty  purse  and  wallet : the  mixture  of  pathos, 
poetry,  and  satire  in  this  little  drawing  can  hardly  be  described  in 
words.”  Mrs.  Jameson  also  especially  notices  one,  among  those  com- 
positions, which  she  calls  moral  poems  thrown  into  palpable  form,  the 
most  interesting  of  them  all  : “ The  Chess-Players  — The  Genius  of 
Humanity  and  the  Spirit  of  Evil  playing  for  the  souls  of  men:  they  sit 
in  an  archway  through  which  lizards  are  crawling.  The  top  of  a sar- 
cophagus forms  the  chess-board.  A beautiful  youth  sits  before  it,  con- 
sidering his  next  move  ; opposite  him  sits  Satan  in  a chair,  whose  arms 
are  the  heads  and  gaping  jaws  of  lions.  A large  cloak  envelops  him; 
only  his  claw-like  hands  are  visible  ; his  devilishly  beautiful  features 
stamp  him  as  liar,  cheat,  and  traitor.  Between  them  stands  a spirit, 
the  Angel  of  Conscience,  whom  Satan  has  no  power  to  disturb,  and 
man  alone  can  repulse  or  remove.  He  gazes  anxiously  at  the  board. 
Satan’s  king  is  an  image  of  himself ; his  queen  is  sensual  pleasure,  a 
shameless,  wanton  beauty,  the  cup  of  intoxication  in  her  hand.  The 
six  knights  are  the  capital  sins : pride,  idleness,  envy,  covetousness, 
lust,  and  gluttony.  The  eight  pawns  are  doubts,  little  bat-winged 
harpies.  On  the  side  of  Humanity,  the  soul  takes  the  place  of  king; 
religion  is  the  queen  ; the  knights  are  hope  with  her  anchor,  truth 
with  torch  and  glass,  peace,  humility,  innocence,  and  love  ; the  pawns 


are  winged  angels,  signifying  prayers  against  doubts,  lhe  game  is 
"oino-  against  man ; his  adversary  has  weakened  his  power  of  prayer 
by  the  loss  of  several  angels,  — his  humility  is  gone,  and  his  peace  is 
lost,  — but  the  man  has  conquered  pride  and  overcome  a doubt.  The 
allegory  is  carried  out  even  in  the  carving  of  the  sarcophagus,  which 
represents  a soul  trembling  at  a horrid  image  of  Death.” 

Instructive  and  interesting  as  these  allegorical  designs  may  be, 
their  abstract  qualities  undeniably  prevent  them  from  stirring  our  sen- 
sibilities. Retzsch’s  most  popular  designs  are  either  entirely  free  from 
allegory,  or  so  slightly  marked  by  it,  that  it  rather  enhances  than  di- 
minishes the  artistic  charm.  Among  them  may  be  reckoned  the  follow- 
ing illustrations  of  Burger’s  Ballads  : Lenore,  the  Lay  of  the  Brave 

Man,  and  the  Pastor’s  Daughter  of  Taubenhain. 

These  three  ballads  are  among  the  most  popular  that  Burger  ever 
wrote,  and  are  the  most  thoroughly  pervaded  by  bis  own  poetic  indi- 
viduality. Burger  was  a prominent  member  ot  the  Hainbund,  the 
Gottingen  poets’  club,  which  originated  in  the  spring-time  ot  our 
greatest  literary  period.  They  were  ever  ruled  by  their  admiration  for 
Klopstock,  which  soon  became  worship,  and  an  intense  love  of  popular 
poetry,  aroused  in  them  by  Herder,  the  first  to  teach  the  true  meaning 
of  folksong,  and  Goethe,  who  was  the  first  to  strike  the  key-note  ot 
this  style  of  poetry.  Burger  in  some  degree  imitated  Klopstock  s 
manner  and  dithyrambic  style.  He  himself  says  of  two  of  his  eaiL 
poems,  “ A Minstrel’s  Love  and  “ A Minstrels  Lay:  '4  I he  poets  of 

our  time  have  revived,  with  some  success,  the  songs  ot  the  ancient 
bards,  most  of  which  are  lost ; the  author  of  these  two  poems  wishes 
to  see  whether  such  of  them  as  remain  to  us  might  not  now  exeit  a 
greater  influence  upon  our  poetry  than  ever  before.  In  his  “ Hearts 


Thoughts  of  Folksong,”  he  insists  that  the  German  muse,  instead  of 
taking  scientific  journeys,  should  study  natures  catechism  happily  at 
home.  This  idea  pervaded  all  Burger’s  poems.  He  was  more  wedded 
to  the  people  than  any  other  poet  of  the  Gottingen  Hainbund,  and 
won  more  sympathy  from  the  masses  than  any  of  them. 

If  his  talent  never  ripened  to  perfect  maturity,  the  cause  was 
clearly  in  the  many  conscious  and  unconscious  errors,  whose  conse- 
quences saddened  and  darkened  bis  whole  life.  “ The  contemplation 
of  this  life,’’  says  Schlegel,  “ is  the  more  painful,  when  we  consider 
that  not  only  his  early  illness,  which  rendered  it  almost  impossible  for 
him  to  live  as  others  did,  not  only  his  unhappy  love  and  the  domestic 
troubles  of  his  latter  years,  but  also  his  very  affection  for  poetry  and 
poetic  labors,  prevented  him  from  materially  increasing  his  worldly 
wealth,  embittered  and  indeed  shortened  his  life.  Few  have  bought 
their  laurels  so  dearly.”  Burger’s  latter  days  were  spent  in  solitude. 
Schiller’s  bitter  criticism,  which  he  now  first  saw,  affected  him  more 
powerfully  than  almost  any  other  thing  in  his  life  ; and  when  we  con- 
sider his  slender  purse,  his  sorrows  and  illnesses,  his  many  necessary 
but  disagreeable  tasks,  bis  total  lack  of  cheerful  society,  the  constant 
aching  of  his  wounded  self-esteem,  we  gain  a not  inadequate  idea  of 
the  dark  reality  of  the  talented  poet’s  life. 

“ Lenore  ” was  the  culmination  of  his  poetic  glory.  His  love  of 
ballads  was  first  aroused  by  Herder’s  “ German  Art  and  Style  and 
Percy’s  Reliques ; to  this  latter  he  chiefly  owed  his  fame,  popular 
poems  in  ballad  form  being  almost  unknown  in  Germany  when  be  first 
wrote.  No  less  than  five  of  bis  poems,  and  two  of  his  best-known 
works  (die  Entfiihrung  and  Binder  Graurock),  are  imitations,  almost 
literal  translations,  of  English  ballads.  It  was  long  doubted  that 


Lenore  was  original,  as  was  afterward  proved  ; Schlegel  remarks  that 
Burger,  in  writing  it,  could  have  no  memory  but  that  of  an  old  song, 
one  verse  of  which,  as  he  often  related,  he  had  heard  a girl  singing: 

“ The  moon  shines  bright  o’erhead, 

And  swiftly  onward  ride  the  dead, 

Dost  shudder,  dear,  to  ride  with  me?” 

He  never  heard  the  rest  of  the  song;  hut  this  fragment  possessed  a 
singular  charm  for  him,  and  was  the  origin  of  Lenore.  Burger  also 
seems,  according  to  Schlegel,  to  have  taken  a hint  from  an  old  Ger- 
man song,  in  the  verse  where  Wilhelm  appears  at  his  loved  one’s  door. 
AVI  len  Burger  was  working  on  the  poem  of  Lenore,  he  wrote  to 
Boie  : “’Tis  now  my  pet  child.  I will  send  you  one  verse  as  sample. 
[Here  follows  the  second  verse  of  the  poem.]  You  will  thus  get  an  idea 
of  the  tone  of  it,  which  I flatter  myself  grows  more  familiar  and  ballad- 
like as  it  draws  to  a close.  The  subject  is  taken  from  an  old  spinning 
song.  I've  taken  great  pains  in  poetizing  it.  My  greatest  reward 
would  he  to  have  it  set  to  music  in  a simple  ballad-like  way  and  again 
used  at  the  spinning-wheel.  Would  I could  add  the  melody  in  my 
soul  to  the  words.”  In  another  letter  to  Boie,  he  says,  referring  to 
an  earlier  poem,  Venus’  Vigil,  which  he  intended  to  re-write : “ The 
spirit  of  this  poem  is  already  so  strange  to  me,  it  seems  so  distant  and 
so  dark,  that  I can  hardly  judge  it.  Herder  has  aroused  an  old 
aspiration  of  my  soul ; and  I must  either  forget  myself  or  let  it  have 
its  way.  O Boie,  what  bliss ! To  find  that  a man  like  Herder  taught 
those  very  things  of  nature  and  of  song  which  I had  long  dimly  felt 
and  seen.  I think  4 Lenore  ’ is  in  some  measure  due  to  Herder’s 
lessons.”  Then,  in  an  enthusiastic  letter  about  Goethe’s  4>  Gotz  von 


Bcrlichingen,”  he  writes : 44  This  Gdtz  inspired  three  stanzas  of 

Lenore.  They  are  as  great  in  their  way  as  ‘Gdtz’  is  in  his.  How 
the  critics  will  growl  at  it ! Free,  free ! subject  to  naught  but 
nature ! ” 

Although  Burger  was  affected  by  Herder  and  Goethe,  as  he  here 
acknowledges,  and  by  the  old  English  ballads,  he  was  none  the  less 
original ; far  from  merely  imitating  them,  he  strove  for  a peculiar  and 
individual  style  in  his  narrative  poems.  While  a certain  bare  presen- 
tation of  facts  and  laconic  brevity  are  innate  in  these  English  ballads, 
as  in  all  folksongs,  Burger’s  romances  are  most  elaborate  in  treatment ; 
single  scenes  are  most  carefully  and  dramatically  depicted,  the  artist 
seeming  to  seek  to  make  them  visible  to  the  eye  by  his  great  minute- 
ness of  description. 

Then  the  imps,  ghosts,  and  fairies,  who  play  so  important  a part 
in  Burger’s  poems,  lack  no  trait  that  might  increase  their  verisimilitude. 
The  poet’s  subjects,  in  truth,  were  full  of  this  mythical  element;  still 
he  himself  had  a decided  taste  for  the  fantastic,  and  his  heart  longed 
for  the  unhallowed  realms  of  dream  world.  He  possessed  this  taste 
in  common  with  Betzsch,  and  the  poetic  interpretation  which  he  placed 
on  his  visions  was  eminently  adapted  to  the  artist’s  pencil. 

44  Lenore  ” was  a glorious  subject  for  this  pen  painting.  It  is  by 
far  the  best,  the  jewel,  of  Burger’s  poems,  — the  costly  ring,  in  Schlegel’s 
words,  with  which  he  wedded  folksong,  as  the  Doge  of  Venice  does 
the  sea.  Its  appearance  in  Germany  was  hailed  with  universal 

applause.  The  novelty  of  subject  and  style  exercised  a powerful 
charm,  and  the  poem  in  itself  was  a great  success.  A story,  as 
Schlegel  says,  which  depicts  the  deluded  hopes  and  vain  revolt  of  a 
human  heart,  and  all  the  horror  of  a desperate  death,  in  a few  sharp 


lines  and  living  pictures,  is  told  with  strict  truth,  in  the  simplest 
words,  by  constantly  changing  voices,  while  we  seem  to  see  the  figures 
move  and  gesticulate  before  us.  The  composition  is  simple  and  noble  ; 
it  is  divided  into  three  parts,  the  brief  introduction,  and  the  quick 
transitions,  as  given  to  us  in  Retzch’s  outlines  ; the  first,  a cheerful 
picture  of  an  army  returning  from  the  war,  being  in  strong  contrast  to 
the  others,  Lenore’s  wild  passion,  and  her  abduction  into  the  kingdom 
of  Death. 

Burger  had  good  reasons  for  dating  his  story  at  so  recent  a day  as 
the  close  of  the  Seven  Years’  War.  Undoubtedly  much  of  its  popu- 
larity and  charm  proceeds  from  this  fact.  Retzsch  gives  us  the  cos- 
tume of  the  time  chosen  by  the  poet,  though  other  artists  have  seen  fit 
to  alter  it. 

The  “ Lay  of  the  Brave  Man,”  illustrated  by  the  second  set  of  out- 
lines, is  hardly  less  popular  than  Lenore,  although  by  no  means  equal 
to  it  in  poetic  treatment.  It  is  the  subject  of  the  poem,  which  exalts 
joy  for  a brave  deed,  and  admiration  of  a noble  soul  though  in  poor 
and  mean  array,  that  arouses  general  interest.  As  Schlegel  truly 

remarks,  it  is  by  no  means  a folksong,  nor  has  it  the  true  romantic 
tone,  which  Burger  so  often  used.  Their  simplicity  would  forbid  the 
superabundant  rhetoric  and  oft-repeated  interjections  of  this  poem 
(O  brave  man,  brave  man,  appear,  appear,  &c.),  as  also  the  egotism  of 


the  song,  which  folk-poetry,  absorbed  in  its  subject,  is  never  guilty  of. 
If  we,  as  Schlegel  suggests,  omit  every  line  or  stanza  of  declamation 
and  merely  retain  the  story,  we  shall  find,  not  only  that  these  passages 
are  superfluous,  but  that  their  omission  greatly  enhances  the  effect  of 
the  poem.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Verona,  and  the  costume  is  never 
alluded  to  in  the  poem,  so  that  the  artist  is  free  to  use  his  own  discre- 
tion. 

“ The  Pastor’s  Daughter  of  Taubenhain,”  illustrated  by  the  third 
set  of  outlines,  is,  especially  in  the  more  important  passages,  adapted 
to  the  nature  of  folk-romance  with  admirable  taste  and  feeling. 

“ There’s  a spot  where  never  grows  the  grain, 

Which  is  never  wet  with  dew  nor  with  rain, 

And  round  it  the  wind  blows  wearily.” 

This  verse  has  the  true  ring,  the  genuine  melancholy  charm  of  the 
folksong.  The  opening  and  closing  stanzas  are  the  best ; they  are 
masterly  in  form  and  strangely  fanciful  and  imaginative.  However  we 
may  regret  the  expiatory  close  of  the  poem,  affecting  even  to  the  cold- 
est hearts,  we  cannot  but  admire  the  truth  and  poetry  with  which  the 
author  has  depicted  the  different  soul  states,  from  the  unhappy  girl's 
first  error  to  her  fatal  crime. 


8 


XL m o i* a. 


Fbom  heavy  dreams  Lenora  rose 
With  morning’s  first,  faint  ray  : 

“ O William,  art  thou  false  — or  dead? 

IIow  long  wilt  thou  delay?” 

He,  with  King  Frederick’s  knightly  train, 
Had  hied  to  distant  battle  plain, 

And  not  a line  had  come  to  tell 
If  yet  he  were  alive  and  well. 

And  now  were  king  and  queen  full  fain 
The  weary  strife  to  cease, 

Subdued  at  length  their  mutual  wrath, 

And  joined  their  hands  in  peace ; 

Then  rose  the  song,  and  clash,  and  clang. 
And  kettle-drums  and  trumpets  rang, 

As  decked  with  garlands  green  and  gay, 
Each  host  pursued  its  homeward  way. 

And  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 

Along  each  road  and  route, 

To  meet  them  came  both  young  and  old, 
With  song  and  merry  shout. 

“ Thank  God!”  both  child  and  mother  cried, 
And  “ Welcome  ! ” many  a happy  bride. 

But,  ah,  one  heart  shared  not  the  bliss 
Of  fond  embrace  and  thrilling  kiss. 

From  rank  to  rank  Lenora  flew ; 

She  called  each  knight  by  name. 

And  asked  for  William ; but,  alas  ! 

No  answering  tidings  came. 

Then  when  that  host  had  all  gone  by, 

She  beat  her  breast  in  agony, 

And  madly  tore  her  raven  hair, 

And  prostrate  fell  in  wild  despair. 


The  mother  hastened  to  her  child  : 

“ Al),  God  have  mercy  now! 

My  darling  child,  what  ailelli  thee?  ” 

And  kissed  her  marble  brow. 

‘ 4 O mother,  mother,  all  is  o’er ; 

No  peace,  no  hope  forever  more ; 

No  pity  dwells  with  God  on  high ; 

Woe’s  me,  woe’s  me  ; O misery  ! ” 

“ Help,  God  of  grace,  look  dowhi  and  help ! 

Child,  breathe  a fervent  prayer; 

Wh  at  God  has  done  must  work  for  good  ; 

God  hears,  and  God  will  spare.” 

“ O mother,  mother  — idle  thought ! 

No  good  for  me  God’s  will  hath  wrought; 
Vain  have  been  all  my  prayers  — all  vain, 

I dare  not  look  to  Heaven  again  ! ” 

44  Help,  God  of  grace!  No  child  shall  seek 
The  Father’s  face  in  vain  ; 

Come,  and  the  blessed  sacrament 
Shall  surely  sooth  thy  pain.” 

44  O mother,  mother,  pangs  like  these 
N o sacrament  hath  power  to  ease ; 

No  sacrament  can  pierce  death’s  gloom. 

And  wake  the  tenant  of  the  tomb  ! ” 

44  Child,  hear  me;  say,  the  false  one  now, 

In  far  Hungarian  land, 

Abjures  his  holy  faith  and  plights 
Some  Paynim  maid  his  hand? 

Well,  let  it  go.  child,  let  it  go  ; 

’Twill  profit  him  no  more  below; 

And  O,  when  soul  and  body  part, 

What  flames  shall  burn  his  perjured  heart!” 


“O  mother,  mother,  lost  is  lost, 

And  gone  forever  gone  ; 

Death,  death  is  now  my  only  gain  ; 

O,  had  I ne’er  been  born ! 

Be  quenched,  forever  quenched,  my  light ! 
Die,  die  in  horror’s  gloomiest  night ! 

No  pity  dwells  with  God  on  high; 

Woe’s  me,  woe’s  me ; O misery  ! ” 

“Help,  God  of  grace!  O,  enter  not 
In  judgment  with  thy  child  ! 

Alas  ! She  knows  not  what  she  says ; 

Forgive  whom  woe  makes  wild. 

Ah,  child,  forget  thine  earthly  woes. 

And  think  on  God  and  heaven’s  repose ; 
Then  shall  thy  soul,  life’s  sorrows  passed, 
The  bridegroom  meet  in  bliss  at  last.” 

“ O mother,  mother,  what  is  bliss  ? 

0 mother,  what  is  hell  ? 

With  him,  with  him  alone,  is  bliss; 

Without  my  William,  hell. 

Be  quenched,  forever  quenched,  my  light. 
Die,  die  in  horror’s  gloomiest  night ! 

While  he  is  not,  no  peace  below ; 
Without  him,  heaven  is  endless  woe ! ” 

Thus  raged  the  madness  of  despair, 

And  smote  and  scorched  her  brain. 

She  ceased  not  still  God’s  providence 
And  justice  to  arraign  ; 

She  wrung  her  hands  and  beat  her  breast, 
Until  the  sun  had  gone  to  rest, 

Till  all  the  stars  came  out  on  high, 

And  twinkled  in  the  vaulted  sky. 


When,  hark ! a distant  trap,  trap,  trap, 

Like  horses’  hoofs  did  sound ; 

And  soon  an  iron-mailed  knight 
Sprang  clattering  to  the  ground. 

And  hark  ! and  hark!  a gentle  ring 
Came  swiftly,  softly, — kling,  ling,  ling; 

Then  through  the  door,  in  accents  clear, 
.These  words  did  greet  Lenora’s  ear : — 

“Holla!  holla!  love,  ope  to  me; 

Dost  wake,  my  child,  or  sleep  ? 

And  what  are  now  thy  thoughts  of  me? 

And  dost  thou  smile  or  weep  ? ” 

“ Ah,  William,  thou  ? ...  so  late  at  night  ? . . . 
I’ve  wept  and  watched  through  gloom  and 
light ; 

And,  ah,  what  depths  of  woe  I’ve  known  ! 
Whence  com’st  thou  now  thus  late  and 
lone  ? ” 

44  At  midnight  hour  alone  we  ride : 

From  Hungary  I come. 

I saddled  late,  and  now,  my  bride, 

AVill  bear  thee  to  thy  home.” 

“ Ah,  William,  first  come  in,  till  morn  ; 

The  wild  wind  whistles  through  the  thorn. 
Come  quickly  in,  my  love ; these  arms 
Shall  fold  thee  safe  from  midnight  harms.” 

44  Let  the  wind  whistle  through  the  thorn, 
Child,  what  have  I to  fear? 

Loud  snorts  the  steed ; the  spur  rings  shrill ; 

I may  not  tarry  here. 

Come,  robe  thyself,  and  mount  with  speed 
Behind  me  on  my  coal-black  steed; 

And  when  a hundred  miles  are  passed, 

We  reach  the  bridal  bed  at  last.” 


“ All,  must  I ride  a hundred'miles 
To  bridal  bed  this  day  ? 

And,  hark!  e’en  now  the  booming  clock  — 
Eleven  ! — night  wears  away.” 

“See  here!  see  here!  the  moon  shines  bright ; 
We  and  the  dead  ride  swift  by  night. 

Thou,  an  thou  mount  without  delay, 

Shalt  see  thy  marriage  bed  to-day ! ” 

“ Where  is  thy  chamber,  say,  my  love? 

And  where  thy  marriage  bed  P ” [cool  — 
“Far,  far  from  here!  . . . Still,  small,  and 
Six  planks  with  foot  and  head.” 

“ Hast  room  for  me  ?”  . . . “ For  thee  and  me  ; 
Come,  robe  thee,  mount,  and  soon  thou’lt  see 
The  guests  stand  waiting  for  the  bride ; 

The  chamber  door  stands  open  wide.” 

Up  rose  the  maid,  and  donned  her  robes. 

And  on  the  courser  sprung, 

And  round  the  darling  rider’s  form 
Her  lily  arms  she  liung. 

And  hurry  ho  ! o’er  hill  and  plain, 

Hop,  hop,  the  gallop  swept  amain, 

Till  steed  and  rider  panting  blew, 

And  dust  clouds,  sparks,  and  pebbles  flew. 

And  on  the  right  and  on  the  left 
How  fast  the  landscape  fled  ! 

How  all  the  thundering  bridges  shook 

Beneath  the  courser’s  tread  ! [bright 

“ Dost  quake,  my  love  P . . . The  moon  shines 
Hurrah!  the  dead  ride  swift  by  night ! 

Dost  fear  the  dead,  my  love,  my  own  ? ” 

“ Ah  no!  . . . yet  leave  the  dead  alone.” 

What  clang  was  that,  and  doleful  song, 

And  rush  of  raven’s  wing?  . . . 

Hark!  hark!  the  knell  of  funeral  bell ! 

The  bending  mourners  sing, 

“ Bear  home  the  dead ! ” and  soon  appear 
The  shrouded  corpse  and  sable  bier ; 

Like  croak  of  frogs  in  marshy  plain, 

Swelled,  on  the  breeze  that  dismal  strain. 


“ When  midnight’s  passed,  bear  home  the 
With  sad,  sepulchral  strain  ; [dead, 

I’m  bearing  home  my  youthful  bride  ; 

Haste — join  the  bridal  train! 

Come,  sexton,  bring  thy  choir  along, 

And  croak  for  me  the  bridal  song ; 

Come,  priest,  and  be  thy  blessing  said, 

Or  ere  we  seek  the  marriage  bed  ! ” 

Ceased  clang  and  song  . . . swift  fled  the 
Obedient  to  his  call,  [bier  . . . 

Hard  at  the  horse’s  heels,  that  throng 
Came  hurrying  one  and  all ; 

And  onward,  on,  o’er  hill  and  plain, 

Hop,  hop,  the  gallop  swept  amain, 

Till  horse  and  rider  panting  blew, 

And  dust  clouds,  sparks,  and  pebbles  dew. 

On  either  hand  — right,  left  — how  swift 
Trees,  hedges,  mountains  fled  ! 

How  vanished  cities,  towns,  and  farms, 

As  onward  still  they  sped  ! [bright ! 

“ Dost  quake,  my  love  ? . . . The  moon  shines 
Hurrah  ! The  dead  ride  swift  by  night ! 

Dost  fear  the  dead,  my  love,  my  own  ? ” 

“ Ah,  leave  the  dead  to  rest  alone ! ” 

See,  see  ! beneath  yon  gallows  tree, 

Along  the  moonlit  ground, 

Half  brought  to  view,  an  airy  crew 
Go  dancing  round  and  round. 

“ Ha,  merry  crew ! come,  haste  along, 

And  follow  in  the  marriage  throng  ! 

I take  my  bride  ere  morn,  and  ye 
Shall  dance  the  wedding  dance  for  me.” 

And  hurry,  skurry,  close  behind 
That  pack  came  hustling  fast : 

So  rattles  through  the  hazel  bush 
November’s  fitful  blast. 

And  onward  still,  o’er  hill  and  plain, 

Hop,  hop,  the  gallop  dashed  amain, 

Till  horse  and  rider  panting  blew, 

And  dust  clouds,  sparks,  and  pebbles  flew. 


How  fast  the  land  on  either  hand 
Beneath  the  moon  swept  by  ! 

How  swiftly  fled,  high  over  head 

The  stars  along  the  sky  ! [bright ! 

“ Dost  quake  my  love  ? . . . The  moon  shines 
Hurrah ! the  dead  ride  swift  by  night ! 

Dost  fear  the  dead,  my  love,  my  own  ? ” 

“ Ah,  leave  the  dead  to  rest  alone ! ” 

“ Speed,  speed,  my  steed ! Methinkse’en  now 
The  early  cock  doth  crow. 

Speed  on ! I scent  the  morning  air ; 

Speed,  speed  ! the  sand  runs  low  ! 

’Tis  done  — ’tis  done  — our  journey’s  passed; 
The  bridal  bed  appears  at  last. 

Hurrah  ! how  swiftly  ride  the  dead  ! 

It  is,  it  is  the  bridal  bed  ! ” . . . 

And,  lo  ! an  iron  grated  gate 
Full  in  their  pathway  frowned: 
lie  snapped  his  switch,  and  lock  and  bolt 
Sprang  back  with  thunder  sound. 

The  clanking  gates,  wide  opening,  led 
O’er  crowded  dwellings  of  the  dead, 

Where  tombstones,  thickly  scattered  round, 
Gleamed  pale  along  the  moonlit  ground. 


Ila,  see!  ha,  see!  Wlioo!  whoo ! what  tongue 
Can  such  dread  wonder  tell  ! 

The  rider’s  collar,  piece  by  piece, 

Like  shrivelled  tinder  fell ; 

His  head  a sightless  skull  became, 

A ghastly  skeleton  his  frame  ; 

In  his  right  hand  a scythe  he  swung. 

And  in  his  left  an  hour-glass  hung. 

High  pranced  the  steed,  and  snorted  wild, 

And,  snorting,  flamed  outright; 

And,  whee!  the  solid  ground  beneath 
Fled  from  the  maiden’s  sight. 

Howls,  howls  were  heard  through  upper  air. 
Below,  deep  meanings  of  despair : 

Her  quaking  heart,  ’twixt  death  and  life, 
Seemed  wrestling  in  an  awful  strife. 

Now  round  and  round,  o’er  moonlit  ground, 
The  ghastly  spectre  train 
Full  well  did  dance  their  fetter  dance, 

And  howled  this  dismal  strain, — 

“Forbear!  forbear!  Though  heart  be  riven, 
Contend  not  with  the  God  of  heaven  ! 

Thou  hast  laid  down  this  earthly  clod  ; 

Now  may  thy  soul  find  peace  with  God  ! ” 


The  artist  presents  us  the  chief  points  of  the  poem  in  six  illus- 
trations : Lenore’s  awakening,  the  returning  army,  Lenore’s  despair, 
the  visit  of  her  ghostly  lover,  the  ride  by  night,  and  Lenore’s  death. 


plate  1. 

Anxiety  for  the  fate  of  her  lover,  exposed  to  all  the  dangers  of 
war,  has  filled  Lenore’s  dreams  with  frightful  images.  It  is  early,  the 
cuckoo  clock  has  just  sung,  and  the  hands  point  to  four.  But  a 
troubled  heart  drives  away  rest,  Lenore  rises  in  agony,  stretches  forth 
her  longing  arms  to  clasp  her  lover,  wavering  between  desire  and  dread- 


10 


ful  doubt:  “O  William,  art  thou  false  or  dead?  How  long  wilt  thou 
delay?”  Her  mother,  sleeping  at  her  side,  awakes  and  watches  her 
with  sorrowful  eyes. 

Pate  2. 

The  ranks  of  returning  warriors  stretch  in  long  lines  across  the 
country.  In  the  background  we  see  the  infantry  ; but  the  middle  and 
foreground  of  the  picture  are  occupied  by  the  cavalry  to  which  Wil- 
liam belonged.  The  villagers  hasten  to  meet  the  warriors,  who  are 
decked  with  green  boughs.  A young  woman  has  found  lifer  husband 
and  holds  towards  him  her  boy,  who  shrinks  away  from  the  man  in 
armor  on  the  horse.  Another  rider  has  dismounted  and  embraces  his 
father  with  speechless  joy.  Lenore  hurries  by  these  touching  groups, 
forgetful  of  self,  anxiously  questioning  the  soldiers.  The  bearded 
man,  whom  she  has  just  asked  for  news  of  William,  looks  gravely  at 
her  as  if  a stranger  to  her.  But  she  docs  not  gain  her  longed-for  news 
from  him. 

“ From  rank  to  rank  Lenora  flew  ; 

She  called  each  knight  by  name, 

And  asked  for  William  ; but  alas! 

No  answering  tidings  came.” 

plate  3. 

The  soldiers  have  passed  by ; we  can  see  the  last  ones  disappear- 
ing, one  with  his  arm  around  his  betrothed’s  waist.  William  was  not 
among  them.  Lenore  has  sunk  to  the  ground,  overcome  by  grief  and 
despair ; her  hair  is  loosened,  her  kerchief  torn,  no  stranger  is  near  to 


check  the  flow  of  her  passionate  complaint ; her  mother’s  monitions  are 
unavailing.  Her  frenzy  soon  becomes  impiety: 

“ O mother,  mother,  what  is  bliss  ? 

O mother,  what  is  hell  ? 

With  him,  with  him  alone,  is  bliss  ; 

Without  my  William,  hell! 

Be  quenched,  forever  quenched,  my  light, 

Die,  die  in  horror’s  gloomiest  night! 

While  he  is  not,  no  peace  below ; 

Without  him,  heaven  is  endless  woe!” 

She  thus  draws  down  the  wrath  of  avenging  powers  ; the  spirit 
of  her  dead  love  appears  to  her  as  in  life,  and  drags  her  down  to  the 
grave  through  all  the  horrors  and  apparitions  of  night. 

Plate  4. 

It  is  night,  the  moon  is  in  the  sky,  the  bird  of  death,  the  screech 
owl,  hoots  from  the  roof,  and  bats  hover  in  the  air.  The  ghostly  rider 
descends  from  his  neighing  steed  at  Lenore’s  door,  he  has  pulled  the 
bell,  and  Lenore,  with  slippered  feet  and  in  loose  array,  has  hurried 
down  to  welcome  her  beloved.  He  cannot  linger  in  her  embrace  : 

“ For  when  a hundred  miles  are  passed, 

They’ll  reach  the  bridal  bed  at  last.” 

But  she,  filled  with  love  and  desire,  sees  not  his  spectral  look,  nor  the 
drops  of  blood  that  ooze  through  his  armor;  pointing  to  the  clock  on 
the  church  tower,  she  asks  doubtfully : 


— 11 


“ Ah,  must  I ride  a hundred  miles 
To  bridal  bed  this  day  ? 

And,  hark  ! e’en  now  the  booming  clock  — 

Eleven!  — night  wears  away.” 

Her  lover’s  apparition  clasps  her  slender  waist  and  tells  her  she  must 
follow  him  out  into  the  darkness. 

opiate  5. 

The  black  steed  gallops  furiously  on,  over  the  tottering  bridge,  by 
the  gallows  on  the  boggy  moor.  At  a sign  from  the  gloomy  rider,  rise 
a shadowy  throng  of  apish  figures,  a horrid  bridal  procession,  with 
priest  and  clerk  in  floating  robes.  On  the  right,  the  skeleton  of  a 
criminal  turns  on  the  wheel,  from  whose  skull  still  protrudes  the  nail 
which  held  him  to  the  torture,  another,  with  his  head  under  his  arm, 
flies  above  them,  wrapped  in  his  shroud,  while  a raven  with  a skull  for 
head  and  other  goblin  forms  hover  near. 

The  gallows,  too,  are  in  motion  ; two  skeletons  are  waltzing  thereon, 
scattered  skulls  and  bones  spring  up,  and  below  stands  a man  of  bones, 
peering  triumphantly  out  at  the  flying  train.  Lenore  sits  on  the  wild 


horse,  with  her  arms  about  her  lover  ; her  head  is  on  his  shoulder,  and 
her  eyes  are  half  closed  as  in  a swoon : 

“ Dost  quake,  my  love?  . . . The  moon  shines  bright! 

Hurrah  ! the  dead  ride  swift  by  night ! 

Dost  fear  the  dead,  my  love,  my  own  ? ” 

“ Ah  no!  . . . yet  leave  the  dead  alone!  ” 

Plate  6. 

The  frightful  journey’s  end,  the  abode  of  death,  is  reached.  The 
ghostly  throng  towers  above  the  open  grave,  and  turn  to  skeletons. 
The  rider  and  his  horse  are  skeletons  as  well ; he  seizes  Lenore,  his 
bony  hand  is  laid  in  token  of  death  upon  her  icy  bosom,  she  sinks  into 
his  grave,  the  bride  of  Death.  A surpliced  goblin  blesses  the  pair  in 
mocking  tones,  and  round  the  grave  grinning  ghosts  whirl  in  demoniac 
dance.  A gravestone,  surmounted  by  a skeleton,  hears  these  words, 
which  at  once  declare  Lenore’s  doom  and  hold  forth  hope  for  her 
salvation : 

“ Forbear!  forbear!  though  heart  be  riven, 

Contend  not  with  the  God  of  heaven  ! 

Thou  hast  laid  down  this  earthly  clod; 

Now  may  thy  soul  find  peace  with  God.” 


€l)e  Lap  of  tfjc  33  rah  e itfan. 


The  brave  man’s  lay  sounds  clear  and  loud 
As  organ-tone  or  bell-note  tolled. 

Who  is  of  courage  justly  proud 
Esteems  a song  but  heeds  not  gold. 

Thank  God ! That  glorify  and  sing  I can, 
To  glorify  and  sing  a good  brave  man. 


From  warm  south  sea  the  thaw  wind  blew 
And  swept  o’er  meadows  damp  and  drear. 
Before  it  every  cloudlet  flew, 

As  when  a wolf  the  lambkins  fear. 

It  scoured  the  fields,  the  heavy  branches  brake, 
And  burst  the  ice  on  every  sea  and  lake. 


On  mountain  top  dissolved  the  snow  ; 

The  waters  fell  in  sounding  ranks  ; 

A lake  was  all  the  vale  below ; 

The  river  overflowed  its  banks  ; [course, 

High  rolled  the  foaming  waves  along  their 
Uprooting  mighty  icecliffs  with  their  force. 


With  columns  stout  and  sturdy  beam, 

From  end  to  end  of  quarried  stone, 

A bridge  securely  spanned  the  stream, 

And  on  it  stood  a cottage  lone, 

In  which  the  tollman,  wife  and  children  stay. 
“ O tollman  ! tollman,  quick  ! away  ! away  !” 


1 


A hollow  crash  around  them  rang, 

Loud  howled  the  stormy  waves  without. 

Up  on  the  root  the  tollman  sprang, 

And  east  a wildered  look  about. 

“0,  Heaven!  Have  pity  on  me!  Spare  me, 
spare  me  ? [me  ? ” 

I’m  lost ! I’m  lost ! Who  will  from  danger  bear 

The  raging  flood  the  ice-calces  bore 
Far,  far  away  from  either  shore, 

From  either  shore  the  torrent  tore 
The  beams  and  columns  with  a roar, 

The  frightened  tollman’s  wife  and  children 
scream, 

They  scream  far  louder  than  the  wind  or 
stream. 

The  ice-cakes  hammered  stroke  on  stroke, 
Against  the  columns  strongly  wrought, 

Till  twisted,  torn  and  shattered,  broke 
From  either  end  the  strong  support. 

And  soon  destruction  to  the  cot  drew  near  — 

“ Have  pity,  O great  Heaven,  upon  our 
fear ! ” — 

High  on  the  upper  shore  there  stands 
A swarm  of  people,  great  and  small ; 

And  each  one  cries  and  wrings  his  hands, 

But  none  would  rescue  of  them  all.  [scream, 
The  frightened  tollman’s  wife  and  children 
They  scream  for  rescue  from  the  wind  and 
stream. 

When  shall  the  brave  man’s  lay  ring  round, 
Like  tolling  bell  and  organ  peal  P 
Come,  come,  and  make  Ins  fame  resound! 
When  wilt,  dear  song,  his  name  reveal? 

See  how  destruction  to  the  cot  draws  near! 

O brave  man ! brave  man  ! quickly  now  appear ! 

A count  rides  quickly  to  the  strand, 

A noble  count  on  panting  steed. 

What  holds  the  count  there  in  his  hand  ? 


A purse  it  is,  and  full  indeed. 

“Behold  two  hundred  gold  pistoles  are  there 
For  him,  who  doth  to  save  these  wretches 
dare.” 

But  who’s  the  count?  Comes  he  to  save  ? 

Tell,  tell,  brave  song,  if  tell  you  can ! — 

The  count,  by  Heaven,  was  most  brave  ! 

But  still  I know  a braver  man.  [appear! 

O brave  man!  brave  man!  quick  appear! 
Fven  now  the  children  their  destruction  fear. 

And  ever  higher  rose  the  flood, 

And  ever  louder  shrieked  the  wind, 

And  ever  chiller  grew  their  blood. 

O where  can  they  a savior  find !, — 

For  column  after  column  broke  and  fell.  [well. 
And  then  the  key-stone  cracked  and  snapped  as 

“Hallo!  hallo!  will  none  appear?” 

The  count  still  holds  the  purse  on  high. 

The  men  all  hear,  but  they  all  fear, 

And  of  the  thousands  none  will  try. 

And  all  in  vain,  the  wife  and  children  scream 
For  speedy  help  to  come  through  wind  and 
stream. 

Now  tall  and  straight  a peasant ’s  seen 
All  hurrying  up  the  road  apace, 

Arrayed  in  garments  coarse  and  mean, 

But  noble  beauty  in  his  face. 

He  heard  the  count,  the  danger  understood, 
He  saw  the  tottering  bridge,  he  saw  the  flood ; 

And  in  God’s  name,  he  boldly  sprang 
Into  a fisher’s  boat  hard  by  ; 

Though  round  him  waves  and  whirlwind  clang, 
He  steers  right  on  o’er  waters  high. 

But  woe  ! alas  ! the  skiff  is  far  too  small 
In  single  passage  thence  to  bring  them  all. 

Aid  thrice  he  urged  his  boat  across, 

Though  wind  and  water  round  him  raved, 

And  thrice  came  back  without  a loss : 


Then  he  could  rest,  for  all  were  saved. 

The  final  one  was  hardly  safe  on  shore, 

Before  the  last  beam  fell  with  sullen  roar. 

Who  is,  who  is  the  good,  brave  man  ? 

Tell,  tell,  brave  song,  and  tell  his  deed! 

The  peasant  into  peril  ran  ; 

But  did  he  it  for  gold  and  greed. 

For  if  the  count  had  offered  not  his  gold, 

The  peasant  never  would  have  been  so  bold. 

“ Here,”  cried  the  count,  “ my  valiant  friend, 
Here  is  your  prize ! ’Twas  bravely  won  ! ” 
Now  say,  did  he  not  well  intend?  — 

By  God  ! The  count  has  nobly  done. 

But  higher  far  and  happier  throbs,  I ween, 
The  peasant’s  heart  beneath  his  raiment  mean. 


“ My  life  is  not  set  up  for  sale. 

True,  I am  poor,  but  need  no  more. 

Y our  gold  will  glad  yon  tollman  pale. 

For  gone  is  all  his  little  store  ! ” 

He  spoke  these  words  in  accents  frank  and 

gay-  _ 

Then  on  his  heel  he  turned  and  went  his 
way. 

Then  let  the  brave  man’s  lav  ring  loud, 

As  organ-tone  or  bell-note  tolled  ! 

Of  such  a spirit  who  is  proud. 

Esteems  a song,  but  heeds  not  gold. 

Thank  God ! That  glorify  and  sing  I can, 

To  glorify  for  aye  the  good  brave  man. 


Four  scenes  reveal  the  story  of  this  poem  : The  count  calling  for  some 
one  to  rescue  those  in  danger,  the  first  journey  and  the  last,  the 
refusal  of  the  promised  reward. 

Pate  1. 

In  the  background  stands  the  bridge  with  the  tollman’s  home,  rest- 
ing on  but  one  support,  the  other  props  having  fallen  away.  A crowd 
of  people  has  gathered  on  the  shore  ; the  principal  figures  in  the  fore- 
ground surround  the  count,  who  sits  on  his  horse  holding  a purse  of 
"old,  which  he  offers  as  reward  to  him  who  shall  save  the  unhappy 
family.  No  one  in  the  crowd  dare  offer  ; one  broad-shouldered  fellow 
stands  with  his  hands  behind  him,  calmly  indifferent ; another,  looking 
askance  at  the  heavy  purse,  scratches  his  ear  contemplatively  ; others 
seem  to  say  that  it  is  impossible  to  think  of  rescue  now.  On  the 
left,  comes  hastily  a strong  and  powerful  man,  with  head  up  and  an 
expression  of  bold  determination  ; all  see  that  he  will  be  the  one  to 
save  the  sufferers. 


— 13  


Plate  2. 

The  bold  man  has  sprung  into  a boat  and  steers  straight  on  through 
the  raging  flood,  which  bears  along  on  its  waves  mighty  cakes  of  ice, 
timbers  and  beams  from  the  broken  bridge.  Caring  not  for  the  dan- 
gers that  surround  him,  he  guides  the  skiff  with  steady  hand,  his 
eye  on  the  helpless  creatures  who  await  him  with  hope,  surprise,  and 
anguish. 

Plate  3. 

The  dangerous  journey  has  been  twice  achieved,  the  greater  part 
of  the  tollman’s  family  are  safe;  returning  for  the  third  time,  the 
brave  man  bears  the  last  ones  from  a horrid  death  and  brings  them 
safely  to  the  shore.  Those  already  saved  stretch  forth  their  arms  to 
their  brother  and  sister,  while  the  crowd,  with  the  count  on  horseback 
in  their  midst,  greet  their  savior  with  shouts. 


Plate  4. 

Right  of  foreground,  the  tollman’s  family.  They  raise  their  eyes 
to  Heaven  in  thanksgiving,  then  turn  to  the  noble  fellow  who  made 
the  fearful  passage  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life.  The  count  bends  from 
his  saddle  and  offers  the  promised  reward  to  their  savior  ; but  he 
declines  it  proudly,  pointing  to  the  tollman’s  family,  whom  the  count’s 
money  may  benefit : 

“ My  life  is  not  set  up  for  sale. 

True,  I am  poor,  but  need  no  more. 

Your  gold  will  glad  yon  tollman  pale, 

For  gone  is  all  his  little  store!” 

He  spoke  these  words  in  accents  frank  and  gay, 

Then  on  his  heel  he  turned  and  went  his  wav. 


&\)t  pastor's  SDaucfljter  of  Caubmljatn. 


In  the  pastor’s  garden  of  Taubenhain 
There’s  a sound  at  night  in  the  arbor. 

There  are  moans  and  groans  with  terror  rife  ; 
There’s  a struggle,  there’s  a flutter  and  strife, 
As  when  the  doves  a falcon  harbor. 

The  Will-o’-wisps  float  o’er  the  stagnant  pool, 
It  shimmers  and  shines  so  drearily. 

There’s  a spot  where  never  grows  the  grain  ; 
Which  is  never  wet  with  dew  nor  with  rain ; 
And  round  it  the  wind  blows  wearily. 


The  pastor’s  daughter  of  Taubenhain 
She  was  as  stainless  as  a doveling. 

The  maiden  was  young,  was  fair,  and  was  fine, 
Many  a knight  rode  down  to  Taubenhain 
And  sought  Rosetta  for  his  loveling. 

From  the  steepest  peak  of  the  mountain  high, 
F rom  yonder  where  the  brook  comes  streaming, 
A castle  towers  o’er  the  vale  below, 

The  roof  with  steel,  the  walls  with  silver  glow, 
The  windows  bright  as  mirrors  gleaming. 


There  dwelleth  the  baron  of  Falkenstein 
With  health  and  with  wealth  and  with  pleasure. 
The  castle  pleased  the  fair  Rosetta’s  sight, 
The  youth  on  his  prancing  steed  brought  her 
delight, 

With  love  and  his  rich  store  of  treasure. 

He  wrote  her  a letter  on  paper  of  silk, 
Enriched  with  a golden  red  lining, 
lie  sent  her  his  picture  so  smiling  and  fair, 
Concealed  in  a heartlet  of  gold  and  pearls 
rare ; * 

And  with  it  a ring  of  stones  shining. 


“ Let  all  your  gay  suitors  mount  and' begone, 
Let  none  of  them  give  your  heart  pleasure  ! 
Rosetta,  not  one  is  fit  your  lord  to  be  ; 

There  is  none,  O my  darling,  who’s  worthy  of 
thee, 

Though  wealthy  in  serfs  and  in  treasure. 

“ I have  a sweet  message  to  whisper  to  thee  ; 
But  for  thine  ear  alone  it  is  meant.  [hear. 
Thy  suit  murmured  answer  how  gladly  I’ll 
Fair  maiden  at  midnight  thy  door  I’ll  be  near  ; 
Tremble  not,  nor  fear  thou  to  consent ! 


14 


“ Hearken  at  midnight  to  the  notes  of  the  quails, 
As  in  the  near  wheat  fields  they’re  mating. 
Where  the  nightingales  woo  their  coy  brides 
with  song. 

With  their  mellow  music  the  whole  night  long ; 
O haste  thou,  and  keep  me  not  waiting!”  — 

He  came  in  his  mantle  and  cap  concealed, 

He  came  when  twelve  the  bells  were  sounding. 
He  stole  in,  armed  with  his  dagger  and  bow, 
As  softly,  as  lightly,  as  clouds  gather  low, 

And  stilled  with  bread  the  watch-dog  bounding. 

He  mimicked  in  darkness  the  notes  of  the 
quails 

Which  in  the  near  wheat  fields  were  mating. 
And  the  nightingales  wooed  their  coy  brides 
with  song. 

With  their  mellow  music  the  whole  night  long ; 
And  Rose,  alas  ! — kept  him  not  waiting. 

With  phrases  soft  and  sweet  to  ear  and  heart 
Adroitly  he  urged  on  his  wooing  ! — 

Love’s  teachings,  alas,  made  her  trusting  and 
tame ! 

He  spared  no  devices,  be  it  said  to  his  shame 
He  fain  would  achieve  her  undoing. 

He  swore  by  all  things  that  are  holy  and  dear, 
That  he  would  be  faithful  for  ever. 

And  while  she  resisted,  he  still  did  implore, 
He  vowed  that  he  loved  her,  and  roundly  he 
swore : 

“ Dear  maiden,  you'll  weep  for  it  never!  ” 

They  drew  near  the  ai-bor  so  dusky  and  still, 
With  blossoming  bean  blows  embowered. 

And  then  with  fear  her  timid  heart  beat  fast ; 
And  soon  by  wild  desire’s  fiery  blast 
The  innocent  maid  wras  o’erpowered. 

When  on  the  beds  of  blossoming  beans 
The  rosy  flowers  ceased  their  blowing, 


Came  o’er  the  maid  an  alteration  strange, 

On  her  cheeks  the  bright  roses  to  snow  tints 
did  change ; 

The  starlight  in  her  eyes  ceased  glowing. 

And  when  the  peapods  began  to  swell 
And  peas  were  ripening  to  the  marrow ; 

When  strawberries  and  cherries  grew  red  and 
round, 

That  her  breast  heaved  too  high,  the  damsel 
soon  found ; 

Her  silken  gown  grew  far  too  narrow. 

And  when  to  the  wheat  field  the  reapers  went, 
The  symptoms  began  to  grow  stronger, 

And  when  autumn’s  chill  winds  o’er  the  meadow 
blew, 

And  far  on  the  breezes  the  wheat  stubble  flew. 
Her  shame  could  be  hidden  no  longer. 

Then  her  father,  a cruel  and  heartless  man, 
Stormed  loudly  against  poor  Rosetta : [fit, 

“ Since  to  get  you  a child  you  now  have  seen 
No  more  in  my  house  shall  you  guiltily  sit, 

But  go  forth  and  seek  for  a better ! ” 

He  wound  her  loose  tresses  around  his  harsh 
hand ; 

He  beat  her  with  leathern  thongs  knotted. 

On  her  quivering  flesh  he  dealt  blow  alter  blow 
Till  her  beautiful  shoulders  once  white  as  the 
snow 

Were  covered  with  blood  thickly  clotted. 

In  the  cold  winter  storm,  mangled,  weeping, 
alone  — 

From  his  threshold  he  ruthlessly  drove  her. 
O’er  the  steep  rugged  pathway  she  painfully 
passed  [last 

And  fainting,  reached  Falkenstein’s  castle  at 
To  recount  her  sad  tale  to  her  lover. 

‘ 1 Alas ! That  a mother  by  thee  I’ve  been  made, 
Before  we  were  lawfully  wedded ! 


Gaze  thou  on  each  bleeding  and  festering  gash, 
The  marks  of  my  sire’s  unpitying  lash 
In  my  poor  tender  body  embedded ! ” 

Sobbing  she  flung  herself  on  his  broad  breast ; 
She  besought  him  to  have  pity  on  her : 

“O  change  now  to  good  the  sad  evil  thou’st 
wrought ! 

And  since  ’tis  by  thee  that  to  shame  I am 
brought, 

0 restore  me,  my  loved  one,  to  honor ! ” 

“Poor  darling,”  he  said,  “in  thy  anger  I 
share ! 

He  shall  pay  for  each  wound  I discover. 
Content  thyself,  sweet  one,  to  tarry  with  me  ! 
Caresses  and  comforts  I’ll  lavish  on  thee 
And  our  plans  we  will  further  talk  over.” 

“ Ah,”  she  said,  “ ’tis  no  time  for  caresses  and 
rest ! 

With  my  honor  no  more  must  I palter. 

How  oft  hast  thou  promised  to  make  me  thy 
bride ! 

By  the  priest,  before  witness,  the  knot  must  be 
tied, 

Which  unites  us  at  God’s  holy  altar ! ” 

“ Silly  child,  know’st  thou  not  that  I spoke  but 
in  jest  ? 

1 did  not  mean  that  when  I said  it ! 

Of  a high  born  family  I am  the  head. 

It  is  proper  that  equals  alone  should  be  wed ; 
On  my  race  I must  not  bring  discredit. 

“ Silly  child,  for  thy  future  I mean  to  provide : 
Of  endearment  I’ll  never  be  chary. 

If  you’ll  wed  with  my  huntsman  so  gallant  and 
bold, 

Although  it  may  cost  me  a mountain  of  gold, 
That  gay  youth  I will  give  thee  to  marry.” 


“ God  curse  thee  ! — thou  infamous,  treacher- 
ous man ! 

May  he  plunge  thee  in  hell’s  hottest  fires!  — 
Though  as  wife  I should  sully  thy  high  born 
race, 

To  sacrifice  me,  thou  didst  deem  no  disgrace, 
To  thy  vile  and  unhallowed  desires  ! 

“ Go  get  thee  a bride,  then,  of  most  noble 
blood ! 

Soon  shalt  thou  my  bitter  draught  swallow ! 

A just,  vengeful  God  will  repay  thee  in  kind, 
And  he  will  ordain  that  thy  humblest  hind 
In  thy  bridal  bed  basely  shall  wallow ! 

“Then,  traitor,  the  horrible  doom  shalt  thou 
feel, 

What  it  is  to  sink  down  to  my  level ! 

In  frenzy  thou’lt  rave  of  the  terrible  stain 
And  speed  the  death  shot  thro’  thine  agonized 
brain ! 

Then  sink  down  to  fiends,  — a base  devil ! ” 

So  speaking,  she  sprang  up  and  fled  from  the 
spot. 

Wherever  she  wandered  unheeding, 

With  bloody  feet  trampling  o’er  thistle  and 
thorn, 

Over  cliff  and  o’er  meadow,  bewildered,  forlorn, 
With  crazy  fear  rapidly  speeding. 

“ Now  whither,  O whither,  O merciful  God, 
Can  I wander  a refuge  to  borrow  ? ” 

Bliss,  honor,  all  lost,  she  roamed  round  in 
despair, 

And  at  last  to  her  garden  at  home  did  repair, 
To  lay  down  her  life  full  of  sorrow. 

Her  limbs  all  benumbed,  she  still  staggered 
and  reeled, 

To  the  arbor  — the  scene  of  her  ruin  ; 


Her  body  and  mind  racked  with  anguish  and 
woe, 

She  sank  on  a brush  heap  besprinkled  with 
snow, 

On  the  spot  where  befell  her  undoing. 

Here  crazed  and  half  frozen,  unsheltered, 
alone, 

Her  terrible  pangs  came  upon  her. 

She  gave  but  one  glance  at  the  boy  which  she 
bore, 

Then  quick  from  her  tresses  a bodkin  she  tore 

And  murdered  the  child  of  dishonor. 

Scarce  had  she  accomplished  her  terrible  deed, 

When,  alas  ! her  poor  mind  ceased  to  wander. 

With  horror  and  anguish  her  blood  cold  did 
run. 

“ 0 Jesus,  my  Saviour,  O what  have  I done?” 

On  her  crime  the  poor  girl  dared  not  ponder. 

With  her  fingers  she  hastily  hollowed  a grave 

By  the  stagnant  pool  ’mid  the  rushes. 


“There  sleep  thou,  my  baby,  in  God  may’st 
thou  rest, 

Safe  hidden  forever  from  scorn  and  rude  jest. 
How  the  ravens  glare  in  the  bushes  ! ” 

The  Will-o’-wisps  flit  o’er  the  stagnant  pool, 
That  shimmers  and  shines  so  drearily. 

Here’s  the  spot  where  never  grows  the  grain ; 
Which  is  never  wet  with  dew  nor  with  rain ; 
And  round  it  the  wind  blows  wearily. 

And  back  of  the  garden  of  Rubenstein, 

High  up  on  the  wheel  in  the  bushes. 

A hollow  skull  and  cross-bones  rattle  and  wave, 
’Tis  her  skull  that  watches  ever  o’er  the  grave 
But  three  spans  long  amid  the  rushes. 

And  every  night  above  the  Rubenstein, 

Above  the  wheel  among  the  bushes, 

A shadowy  form  floats  misty  and  pale, 

That  quenches  the  blue  light,  to  no  avail, 

And  moans  on  the  shore  mid  the  rushes. 


This  poem  is  illustrated  by  live  pictures : the  meeting  in  the  gar- 
den, the  repudiation,  her  malediction  of  her  lover,  the  crime,  and  the 
vision  at  the  grave. 


Plate  1. 

A flowery  garden  by  moonlight  at  midnight ; high  up  in  the  back- 
ground the  castle  of  the  knight  of  Falkenstein.  Wrapped  in  his 
cloak  the  knight  has  stolen  in  ; he  has  found  Rosetta,  and  with  whis- 
pered words  of  love,  he  strives,  an  adept  in  the  arts  of  tender  entreaty, 
to  lead  her  into  the  dusky  arbor.  Devotion,  confiding  love  in  her  eyes, 
she  gives  him  her  hand  and  follows  him  with  timid  steps. 


plate  2. 


The  spring  and  summer  of  love  are  followed  by  cold  winter,  the 
fruit  of  this  secret  intercourse  has  ripened  and  can  no  longer  be  con- 
cealed. The  pitiless  father  thrusts  out  his  unhappy  daughter,  her 
mournful  and  beseeching  look  has  no  power  to  stay  his  hand,  which 
holds  a scourge,  with  which  he  beats  her  tender  body  unmercifully. 
Her  father’s  wrath  drives  her  relentlessly  forth  into  the  bitter  winter 
night.  The  sprigs  and  roofs  are  covered  with  ice,  and  the  moon  casts 
a ghastly  glimmer  through  the  withered  branches  of  the  spectral  trees. 


Plate 


o 


o. 


The  wretched  girl  has  hurried  to  Falkenstein’s  castle,  hoping  to 
find  aid  and  shelter  there.  She  falls  at  his  feet  and  implores  him  with 
streaming  eyes : 

“ O change  now  to  good  the  sad  evil  thou’st  wrought ! 

And  since  ’tis  by  thee  that  to  shame  I am  brought, 

O restore  me,  my  loved  one,  to  honor ! ” — 

In  the  handsomely  furnished  room,  adorned  with  costly  weapons 
of  war  and  chase,  the  knight  stands,  leaning  against  a table  with  sym- 
bolic carvings  on  the  corners  : a falcon  tearing  a dove.  Coldly  and 
proudly  twirling  his  moustache  with  an  indifferent  air,  he  hears  her 
prayer  and  answers  with  these  cruel  words : 

u Silly  child,  knowest  thou  not  that  I spoke  but  in  jest? 

I did  not  mean  that  when  I said  it ! 

Of  a high  born  family  I am  the  head. 

It  is  proper  that  equals  alone  should  be  wed ; 

On  my  race  I must  not  bring  discredit.” 


r 


Struck  with  horror,  her  face  just  now  bent  in  prayer  is  raised ; she  no 
longer  kneels,  but  seems  about  to  spring  up.  She  convulsively  clenches 
her  left  hand,  while  she  threatens  her  deceiver  with  the  other.  With 
hate,  rage,  and  despair  in  her  face,  she  hurls  this  curse  at  him . 

“ God  curse  thee!  Thou  infamous,  treacherous  man! 

May  he  plunge  thee  in  hell’s  hottest  fires!” 


plate  4. 

The  anguish  and  despair  have  made  the  unhappy  girl  mad,  and 
she  murders  her  child.  In  the  stormy  winter  night,  with  croaking 
ravens  hovering  near,  she  digs  with  bloody  nails  a tiny  giave  for  hei 
new-born  babe : 

“ There  sleep  thou,  my  baby,  in  God  may'st  thou  rest, 

Safe  hidden  forever  from  scorn  and  rude  jest! 

How  the  ravens  glare  in  the  bushes!  ” 


She  has  given  herself  up  to  justice  and  suffered  the  punishment 
of  death.  In  a stagnant  pool  above  the  grave,  where  will-o’-the- 
wisps  are  dancing,  crouches  a little  childish  figure  — 

“ There’s  the  spot  where  never  grows  the  grain  ; 

Which  is  never  wet  with  dew  nor  with  rain  ; 

And  round  it  the  wind  blows  wearily.” 

Over  it  hovers  in  the  darkness,  amidst  pale  clouds,  the  image  of  the 
wretched  mother,  her  hair  tied  up  and  her  garments  stripped  from  her 
shoulders,  as  when  she  mounted  the  scaffold.  She  floats  by,  wringing 
her  hands,  with  ghastly  face : 

“ She  quenches  the  blue  light  to  no  avail, 

And  moans  on  the  shore  ’mid  the  rushes.” 

The  village  watchman,  whose  dog  slinks  along,  tail  between  his  legs, 
gazes  with  silent  horror  at  the  spectral  form. 


L E N O II  A. 


* 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  BRAVE  MAN. 


3 


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THE  PASTOR’S  DAUGHTER  OF  TAUBENHAIN. 


/' M,  \ 

7?  Vi-f-M 

\ 

1 

. ^ // 

r 


* 


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